


The Fungibility of Matter

by Mithrigil



Category: Dark Souls I
Genre: Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, F/M, Hemipenes, Objectification, Other, Tail Sex, Triple Penetration, Xeno, or your enticement, the pairing is your warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9622202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil
Summary: Seath and Gwynevere experiment. Rather, Seath experiments and Gwynevere is his test case.





	

To have the Goddess on her hands and knees in the crystal glade, with the sunlight that should be upon her bare back shadowed instead by his silhouette, is as profane as it is sacred.

She is eager, yes--as eager as any of the other times Seath has had her beneath him--each peal of her voice made wordless in the pleasure he administers. It is so strange, to be a giver of pleasure. It so rarely concerns him. But here, now, with Gwynevere in his grasp, it is like the fragment of flame that courses through his soul. His forelegs pin her shoulders, and the snap of her straining elbows rings out as the herald of a truly glorious moan.

It is in her nature, Seath suspects. It, pleasure. Pleasure incarnate must feel so little of its own absence. And in their other times together, Gwynevere has known no pain; not to accommodate his girth, nor to be reviled by his infirmity, nor even to flinch from his ardor. The Goddess embraces him. She loves him.

Seath finds the very concept fascinating.

She arches her back; her hair, damp with exertion, scrapes his abdomen where he is weak and soft. She knows nothing of the revulsion that he should and _does_ feel at the reminder, but her voice, her scent, curb the hurt as soon as it’s inflicted. Her softness is counter to his. He could not feel her plump, plush body nestled against him if he had the stone scales of his brethren. For the moment, it is worth it.

“Your Grace,” she begs, gloriously wanton, “I await thee. Please. _Please_.”

He cannot see her, not without his channelers, but to touch her is to know her. She is so warm, so yielding, skin dripping against his. She glows with her father’s light. The bracken earth beneath her thickens into soil to support her knees. His tails trail through it, one coiling around her middle to lift her and spread her for the rest.

“And how would you have me, Princess?” he teases, letting his tongue catch on her hair.

She laughs; it is music, echoing off the crystal spires. “Any way that can be had, your Grace. I do not fear you.”

_Any way that can be had,_ she says. She knows not what she offers him, but he will give it and she will take it all. He does not doubt it. But to pleasure the very Goddess of the concept, he will have to be industrious indeed.

The scientist in him is positively, perversely thrilled.

Aroused, his hemipenes emerge from their vent. For all her eagerness he lets her feel them between her legs and along her perineum. They have not inflated as much as they will, but her smoothness prickles every one of his ridges and spines and Gwynevere whimpers.

“Any way that can be had,” Seath repeats, this time aloud. “Any, or _all?_ ”

“Ah, yes--” her legs spread wider, and his penes engorge as if to fill the undue gap. “Could you? Can it be done?”

Her cunt welcomes his distal penis, just tight enough that the spines bend in. _Bliss,_ he thinks, _pleasure untold._ “Princess. Am I meant to think that a challenge?”

His thrust cuts off her answer. He assumes it to be yes, the way she moans and cants her hips, engulfing him in pure wet heat. The shards of the First Flame call out to each other and set their primal rhythm, the deliberate building fuck that Seath never knew until betrayal and sunlight and _her_. He thinks of his brethren, electrocuted and shattered for all their supposed immortality, never knowing this pleasure. Never knowing heat, pressure, tightness, denial, anticipation. For a moment, Seath loses himself in the act, all senses but touch as blind as his eyes.

Beneath him, Gwynevere throbs with life and desire. He cannot bring himself to withdraw completely, not with his spines filling her cunt so deeply, nudging her cervix at the apex of each push. Her fluids ease him, warm him. This close to her, he can hear the obscene slapping sounds of his proximal penis on her haunches. So cold, so neglected in comparison.

She mewls, as if she’s picked up on his implications, and widens her legs still more. She can’t spread herself for him, not the way he’s holding her down, and her hole is almost certainly too tight for him to just shove it in without preparation. That’s not too hard to rectify: he pulls the distral out--Gwynevere whines, inchoate--then slams the proximal home in its place. Two or three sharp thrusts and her slickness coats him and drips down her thighs to gather on his other cock, cooling and still swollen, as if it misses her.

It’ll have her back soon enough.

It’s possible that the body of the Goddess of Sunlight and Pleasure and Warmth will welcome its own fluids with ease. Seath intends to test that theory. One more pounding thrust (she groans and climaxes, so much the better) and he pulls out entirely only to nestle the heads of both hemipenes against her, the distal to her dripping slit, the proximal to her anus. Before the proximal gets too dry, he fills both at once. If she feels any pain, it sounds and feels and smells the same as her orgasm, and the bliss that engulfs Seath immobilizes him as she seizes and cries.

Truly, the world of giants and humans and gods is a marvel.

Boneless beneath him, Gwynevere takes every thrust, sheathes him in her ridged warmth and yielding tautness. His hemipenes rub each other through her fragile walls, spines catching on her fissures, molding them to take him all. She is beyond words, Seath thinks; perhaps he would be, in her position. As it stands, he cannot conceive of anything else he’d rather be doing than fucking her, here, now, like this. He loses time in her body. Her heart flutters, her skin scalds. Each wordless moan simply begs for more.

_Any way that can be had,_ she said. _All ways,_ he said.

He slows his thrust enough to plunge his foremost tail beneath her body, between her heaving breasts (softness untold, and yet not weakness, not like his) and if it was perverse to fuck her this is outright vulgar. He fills her and each thrust rubs her futilely on his scaleless hide, lifts her off the earth. Dirt from her knees streaks his skin, smelling of water and old blood, but she grinds and pants as he gathers her closer, takes her purchase and leaves her at the mercy of his ardor. Her whimpering lips and startled flat teeth catch on the tip of his tail and he bends it to fuck her there too, take that wet and begging hole and feel its pleasures for himself. She sucks it, as deep as her passages, tongue flat and throat hollow as he fucks her onto himself. Fire surges, and strength becomes him, and her soul is bared as an empty haze as Seath fills her to bursting and locks it all in.

She trembles in his grasp. Laughter, he thinks. It is difficult to tell. He unfurls his tail and drapes her back on the ground, cocks still softening inside her. She curls up like a hatchling and clings to his tail, her breath short and ragged.

Incontrovertibly, Seath thinks, he has triumphed over his brethren. They will never have this.


End file.
